by Deanna Edens
Aunt Mary’s voice rose in volume, “You don’t need a vote to raise hell!” Her eyes shone with triumph, “You need convictions and a voice!”
Mrs. Jones suddenly darted up from her seat, “I think the stew is warm, how about I fix you girls some bowls and then we’ll all have a good stiff drink.”
“Wonderful idea,” Erma’s mama agreed, hoping this would soothe the heated argument that was taking place at the kitchen table.
Mrs. Jones set a bowl down in front of Erma, and another in front of Ida before dolloping a heaping portion into both. She took advantage of the fact that Ida’s mouth was stuffed full to change the topic of discussion. “So Mary, how long will you be staying with us?”
“Just a few days,” she said, as she rose out of her chair and walked over to the sink. She thoughtfully examined the homemade raspberry wine, then settled on the jug of moonshine, popped the cork out and poured herself a tall drink. “I am heading out to the gritty streets of a Pennsylvania mill town to assist with the unionization in the steel mines. There may be strikes ahead.”
Erma’s head popped up, “Is a no-strike clause still in effect?”
“Yes, in a way,” she took a long drink of the ‘shine. “You are referring to the Lever Act. It endorses the right to collective bargaining as long as the no-strike policy is maintained. However, the truth is that working conditions are not improving for laborers.”
“I concur,” Erma shook her spoon in the air, “the families in these towns are still living in horrible conditions.”
“But,” Ida started to speak with her mouth stuffed full of stew.
“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Erma’s mama and Mrs. Jones chastised her in unison.
“Sorry,” Ida dipped her head and studiously stirred her stew.
Everyone released a sigh of relief as Mrs. Jones slid plates of apple pie and drinking jars filled with wine around the table. “Let’s move on to a more agreeable topic,” she suggested. “How are your studies coming along?”
They swallowed deeply before replying, “We’re doin’ fine in college.”
Jeremiah, Erma’s little brother, had overheard the chatter and the clink of dishes resonating from the kitchen, so he slid on his socks and followed the sound of voices down the long hallway. When he peeped his head around the corner he let out a loud “Yee Haw! If it ain’t my sister and her pesky friend, Ida.” He offered a joshing smile. Erma jumped up and rushed over to hug him, realizing for the first time he was taller than she was, so she had to stand on her tiptoes to tousle his hair.
“It’s ‘bout time ya came back to visit,” he said, as he snatched up a piece of pie, sat down at the table, and curiously looked around. “What are y’all drinkin’?” he blurted.
“Wine,” Mrs. Jones replied.
“‘Shine,” Aunt Mary stated frankly.
“Can I try it?’
“Wine or ‘shine?”
“The moonshine,” Jeremiah grinned slyly.
“It’s up to your mama.”
“Mama?”
“One small glass,” she conceded.
Hours passed while Erma, Ida, Jeremiah, Mrs. Jones, Erma’s mama, and Aunt Mary “Mother” Jones shared stories, laughed and drank ‘shine and wine. Then when the rooster announced the arrival of a new day they stumbled to their bedrooms, still beaming from the anecdotes that had been shared in the hospitable warmth of Mrs. Jones’ kitchen.
Mrs. Jones’ Farm
August 7, 1919
“Ultimatum”
{{10}}
When the sweet scent of bacon frying floated down the long hallway and drifted into the bedroom, Erma yawned and rolled over on the cozy featherbed. She brought the edge of her quilt closer to her chin and cuddled deeper in its warmth. Suddenly, her eyes sprang open. With a burst of clarity, she recalled where she was. She peeked at the clock – only four hours of sleep. “What fun we had,” she thought as she slipped on her thick britches and pulled a crinkled cotton blouse from her suitcase. She was pleasantly surprised to see her mama, Mrs. Jones, and Aunt Mary cooking a breakfast feast. Aunt Mary was busily peeling apples by the countertop, while Mrs. Jones was occupied turning the fat-coated bacon in the frying pan. Her mama was pulling mugs out to fill with hot tea.
“Good morning, Erma.” Her mama said over her shoulder, “Could ya fetch the butter, sugar, and strawberry jam and place them on the table?”
“Yes, Mama.” Erma knew, full and well, that everyone had to pitch in with chores at Mrs. Jones’ farm. It had been a valuable lesson she had learned when she lived here, and one that had carried on throughout her lifetime. “Them that don’t pluck don’t get chicken,” was one of Mrs. Jones’ favorite sayings, and when this forgotten memory flashed through her mind, a tender grin wrapped up around her cheeks.
“Then if ya could set the table,” her mama further directed.
She went about gathering the requested items, knowing there was no need to reply, because when her mama or Mrs. Jones told her to do something – she did it. She didn’t lollygag, complain or shuffle her feet.
Erma knew the farmhouse well, she knew every nook and cranny, from the mismatched brick that concealed a hidden compartment by the hearth, to the squeaking steps that led up to the attic, and even though her back was facing the stove, she knew for certain when Aunt Mary sprinkled cinnamon on the apples and dropped them into the sizzling butter-soaked skillet. The sweet and savory aroma brought back heartfelt memories of the delicious summertime breakfasts she had been so thankful to have when she lived at Mrs. Jones’ farm. Erma could vaguely recall when she was young, and had lived in a company-owned shack outside of Red Ash Mine. “Back when my belly wasn’t always full,” she remembered as a tear of gratitude formed in the corner of her eye.
“Mrs. Jones?” Erma whispered.
“Yes?” the older woman responded, without glancing away from the bacon.
“You were an angel for taking us in.”
“Amen!” Erma’s mama chimed.
“It was a pleasure to have your family in my home. Your mama, you, and Jeremiah are a true blessing to me.” Mrs. Jones paused momentarily, “You know, I was just thinking about the day you arrived here in 1905, and realized it has been over fourteen years since we came into one another’s lives.” She whistled softly, “Time flies.”
“What kind of kid was I?” Erma curiously inquired.
Mrs. Jones didn’t hesitate, “Ornery and inquisitive.” She thoughtfully considered before adding, “Plus you were always polite and loved animals to a fault.” She turned and grasped Erma’s hands, “Just look at ya now,” her lip quivered slightly, “you’re all grown up and a successful woman.”
“Yeah,” Erma blushed modestly, “kinda.”
Mrs. Jones’ eyes smiled with pride, “Your mama told me that you just bought a small farm,” her face earnestly implied, “and we are so proud of you.”
Aunt Mary suddenly joined in the conversation, “Where did you buy land, Erma?”
“In Sissonville,” she supposed she should add clarification, “it’s a few miles outside of Charleston.”
Aunt Mary “Mother” Jones perked up, “Sissonville? Well, I do declare! I was just in Sissonville last month.”
“You were? Why?”
“Fighting for better conditions for those who can’t fight for themselves.”
Erma was confused – she knew Aunt Mary had spent years fighting for unionization of miners, but she didn’t recollect any mines in the Sissonville area. “There aren’t any coal mines in Sissonville, are there?”
“No,” she pursed her lips together, “my attention was called to the ruthless conditions of the Sissonville prison camp. I found the most brutal slave ownership there.” Mother Jones shook her head with disgust. “With the assistance of Mr. Mooney and Mr. Snyder, who are organizers in that area, I went to the place where prisoners were building a county road. It was broiling hot that day. I saw about forty men, swinging picks and shovels – some were
old, some very young, and some diseased and many of them were dragging a heavy iron ball and chain as they walked and worked.”
Erma gasped, “I had no idea.”
“Most folks don’t realize the horrible conditions and many believe these men deserve their sentences, but I found that many had received light sentences in the courts for minor offenses, but the road officer could extend the sentence for the infraction of the tiniest rule. For example, some men had been in the camp for a year, even though their original sentence had been thirty days, for having in their possession a pint of liquor.”
“Tell Erma about their living conditions,” Mrs. Jones prompted her to continue.
“At night the miserable colony were driven to their horrible sleeping quarters which consisted of iron cages, iron bunks with thin cloth to cover them. There was no sewage, and the only toilet for the group was a hole in the floor of the cell with a tub underneath. It was not emptied until full. There were flies buzzing about and vermin crawling everywhere.” She unconsciously drummed her fingers on the table, “The sick had no care or medicine and none of them had protection against the brutality of the road overseers.”
“What did you do to help them?”
“Well, I knew there was no use to tell the governor about the conditions, so I immediately took a train straight to Washington. I found the Attorney General and told him about the brutal treatment. He promised me he would make an immediate inquiry, and I heard the news this morning,” she smiled victoriously. “There were fifteen illegally held prisoners released over the last few days. It is my hope that the worst abuses are corrected.”
“Amazing,” Erma replied in awe. “You’re a brave woman.”
Aunt Mary grinned at Erma’s compliment, “I feel that in our great enlightened country, there is no reason for going back to the Middle Ages and their forms of torture for the criminal.”
When the table was set with plates and the breakfast drawn from the stove, Ida peeked her head around the curve of the kitchen door, “Is breakfast ready? I’m starved.”
“You are just in time,” Mrs. Jones commented.
“As usual,” Erma added under her breath.
A platter stacked full of bacon and biscuits was passed around the table.
“So,” Aunt Mary probed, “what are you studying at the college, Erma?”
Erma took a long drink of steaming tea before replying, “I hope to become an animal doctor someday.” She further explained, “Which is why I bought the farm.” Erma unexpectedly recalled delivering Valentine’s kittens, years ago, in the old barn out back. This single event had forever affected her and had completely shaped her aspirations in life.
“How do you know she’s ready, Mrs. Jones?” Erma had asked.
“She hasn’t eaten all day, and she is enormously swollen,” Mrs. Jones passed her hand over Valentine’s distended abdomen. “See how tightly her skin is stretched?”
“Yeah,” Ida and Erma replied in unison.
“You see, she looks like she is bursting full of kittens, but she is so lifeless and exhausted. She is straining, too, and licking at her vulva.”
Ida had gagged dramatically, “Is this gonna make me puke?”
Mrs. Jones let out a chuckle in spite of herself, “I hope not, Ida. I have enough to tend to already.” She soaped her little finger, and found it would only just go into the tiny vagina. She found the cervix wide open and a mass beyond, but only just palpable. “The Lord only knows how many kittens are jammed in there,” Mrs. Jones informed the girls. “It looks as if there is not enough room for them to come out.”
Valentine let out a faint meow of distress.
Mrs. Jones picked up a suction tube and inserted it into a flask. She withdrew a small amount of liquid, bent over and forced the liquid down Valentine’s throat. She then shaved a small area before picking up a scalpel.
Erma could see Mrs. Jones’ hands were shaking.
“What ya gonna do, Mrs. Jones?” Erma curiously asked.
Mrs. Jones snatched up the flask, held it to her lips, and took a long gulp. “We are going to make a small incision so the kittens can find their way out.” She studied the girls doubtfully before explaining, “What you are about to witness is not going to be pleasant.” She handed the flask to Erma, “You may want a swig yourselves.”
Erma took a long drink and whistled softly before passing it to Ida.
“What is this?” Ida asked, as she sniffed the contents.
“Moonshine,” Mrs. Jones replied frankly, “and don’t tell your mamas.”
Slowly a reminiscent grin wrapped up around her cheeks as the long lost memory returned. It was when she had first become interested in doctoring animals.
Her thoughts were interrupted when Aunt Mary suddenly addressed Ida. “And you?”
Ida shrugged, “I’m not sure. I’m interested in history and geography, and I hope to teach college classes someday,” she picked up her fork, “but presently my efforts are focused on the suffrage movement.”
Aunt Mary seemed to consider this carefully before proclaiming, “I am not a suffragist nor do I believe in careers for women, especially a job in a factory or mill where most working women have their careers. A great responsibility rests upon women, which is the training of their children. This is her most beautiful task. Women should not neglect their homes.”
“Really?” Ida’s brow arched, “Why aren’t you tending to your family?”
Erma shut her eyes, “Please God, hush-up Ida’s mouth.”
“Stop it, Ida!” Mrs. Jones slammed her fist on the table, “Not that this is any of your business, but in 1867 Mary’s four children and husband died from a fever epidemic that swept through Memphis.” She brandished her finger angrily, “Mary and I are the best of friends, just like you and Erma, and we will always look out for one another. My alliances will always be with Mary, and you will never speak to your elders in that tone of voice in my home,” her eyes narrowed as she delivered the pointed ultimatum. “Ya best keep your mouth shut, or I’ll tear your butt up like a tater field that’s just been plowed.”
Ida’s eyes grew wide as she gulped. She started nervously biting at her lower lip. Mrs. Jones had never spoken to her so sharply. She knew it took a lot to get Mrs. Jones riled up, but when one did, well… as James Whitcomb Riley wrote, “Katy, bar the door.” She could feel her face flush from embarrassment. “I’m sorry.”
Mrs. Jones fixed her gaze squarely on Ida, “You best be sorry. I know, for a fact, that your mama raised you better.”
“She’s just speaking her mind,” Mary “Mother” Jones gently placed her hand on top of her sister-in-law’s hand. “Ida is a young educated woman who is entitled to her opinions.”
“She’s not entitled to anything,” her attention turned to Mary, “and she best not be gettin’ above her raisin’.”
For a long moment, stillness filled the room. The only noise was the loud ticking of the clock suspended on the wall, its measured sounds mingled with Mrs. Jones’ fingernails drumming the table – tap, tap, tap, tap. Her face grimaced before she continued, “Which reminds me, Ida, are you planning to drive over to Thurmond to visit your mama today?”
“Yes, Ma’am.” Ida whispered morosely.
“Good,” she took in a deep breath, before shooting a glaring stare in the young woman’s direction “would you do us the privilege of saying grace?”
“Yes, Mrs. Jones.”
The women clasped their hands and bowed their heads. “Thank you God for this food,” Ida provided.
A long silence followed as everyone seated at the table waited for her to continue. “Amen,” she quickly added.
Mrs. Jones opened one eye and glared at her.
“Amen,” Erma quickly intervened on behalf of her friend as she nervously twirled a strand of hair with her finger.
Mrs. Jones cleared her throat disapprovingly before she swiped the jam onto the piping hot biscuit and passed the plate to Aunt Mary.
&nbs
p; Erma’s mama graciously diverted the conversation to the best spot for picking blackberries this season.
“Hallelujah! Thank ya, Mama.” Erma thought, as her brother, Jeremiah ambled into the kitchen.
“Did I miss anything?” he asked, as he opened the icebox door and pulled out a bottle of milk.
“We were just discussing the best place for you to gather blackberries this afternoon,” his mama informed him.
The fourteen-year-old whined, “Aw, do I have to?”
“Then, go brush some whitewash on the maple trees down by the river path,” Mrs. Jones added, “right after you and Ida wash up the breakfast dishes.”
Erma leaned over and whispered into Ida’s ear, “I think you’re gonna have cleanup duty for the rest of our stay.”
“I know,” Ida spat between clenched teeth.
Erma couldn’t help but to offer her friend some advice, “And ya probably oughta polish up on sayin’ grace,” she teased before chomping into a crispy slice of bacon.
Sissonville, West Virginia
April 11, 1981
{{11}}
The following morning I woke up in a big featherbed with a serious crick in my neck. I drowsily wandered toward the scent of brewing coffee.
“Good morning,” Will greeted me, as he slid a steaming cup in my direction.
“Good morning,” I replied with a yawn.
“I’ve been really thinking about this, Annie.” Will nodded cheerfully, “Ya oughta at least consider taking up veterinarian studies.”
“I’m meant to be a psychologist,” I informed him as I dabbled a drop of cream into my cup.
“How do ya know?”
“Because,” I wondered if I really needed to verbalize my incompetence, “I don’t know the difference between a tick and a varmint.”
“Truue,” Hank chimed in.
“Traitor,” I barked in his direction. My attention turned toward Will, “I will be graduating next month.”
“What’s your plan after that?”